


fun in a minute (when we could push all the limits)

by DivineProjectZero



Category: Leverage
Genre: Dom/sub Play, M/M, Slapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25485025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineProjectZero/pseuds/DivineProjectZero
Summary: The shirt is probably the lesser of two evils, because Quinn’s pants are made of leather, and they areobscenelytight. Eliot’s pretty sure Quinn isn’t wearing anything underneath them.Fuck, he wants to unzip those with histeeth.
Relationships: Mr. Quinn/Eliot Spencer (Leverage)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 119





	fun in a minute (when we could push all the limits)

**Author's Note:**

> Self-betaed. All mistakes are mine. Constructive feedback is always welcome.
> 
> Biggest thanks to Avian for cheerleading and giving me feedback on this monster of a porn fic. Thanks for validating my kinks.
> 
> Title from "Almost Love" by Sabrina Carpenter.

This is probably the worst idea they’ve ever had. And that’s including the one time the whole team had to go undercover at Comic Con. Eliot’s dignity still hasn’t recovered from that one.

But they don’t really have much of a choice, because they need somebody to distract the mark while the rest of them set up the finale for this con they’ve been running for two whole weeks. Which requires the distraction to keep the mark inside his office of the gay nightclub he runs. This strikes Sophie and Parker off the list of people who can keep the mark occupied; Nate and Eliot have already assumed roles that take them off the list as well; which leaves Hardison. And Hardison has a fractured ankle, so he’s not in any shape to do anything except sit in Lucille 3.0. 

After much deliberation, they decide to go through with the original plan, but with the help of some backup.

And that backup is slowly driving Eliot insane.

“I’m flattered that I was on the top of your list to play gay honeytrap,” Quinn teases, dropping his duffle bag on the floor of Eliot’s living room. The way he tilts his head and smiles, sharp and easy, makes something in the pit of Eliot’s stomach coil tight. “I guess that means I’m the prettiest criminal you know.”

Quinn isn’t what anybody would qualify as _pretty_. There’s no sense of delicacy or softness to him that would let him fit that description. He has a boyish charm to his facial features, though, and there’s an understated kind of appeal to him that makes it easy for other people to let their guard down around him. If there were a gun held to his head, Eliot would admit that Quinn is likable. Maybe even attractive. He refuses to elaborate otherwise.

“Don’t let your ego get ahead of you,” Eliot grumbles. “You just happened to be close by.”

“You say the sweetest things.” Quinn’s tone is dry, but there’s a hint of humor that makes Eliot want to both smile and groan. “Right, let’s get to work, then. I want to see this brewpub of yours.”

This is the worst idea, Eliot once again thinks to himself. He hopes that at least this job will leave his dignity mostly intact.

-

The thing is, Eliot likes Quinn. He likes Quinn’s efficiency and skills when he’s on the clock. He likes the way Quinn doesn’t take things personally, how he’s barely bothered by the fact that Eliot broke his ribs in a hangar years ago. He likes Quinn’s easy, laid-back attitude that hides just how deadly he is. He likes the way the two of them share the same instinctive language of violence and professionalism and danger.

He’s pretty sure Quinn returns the sentiment. They have a mutual respect for each other and a friendly understanding that they can be playing on opposing sides and there won’t be hard feelings afterwards. It’s probably the best approximation of friendship two hitters could have.

Except, ever since that week they spent in and out of an underground cave, working side by side, there’s been this tension between them. Nothing overt. Just—that slightest edge of awareness that drags across your skin. They’ve texted a few times over the past few months; even met up once, when Quinn called that favor in and dragged Eliot to Toronto for a job. They’d grabbed a beer when they were finished, and Eliot had felt that tension pulled tight under his skin as he watched the way Quinn had licked his lips after a long sip of his drink. The way Quinn had loosened his tie with deft fingers. He’d thought, for a fleeting moment, about what it’d be like to drag Quinn in by that tie and lick the beer off his lips. 

When he’d lifted his gaze to Quinn’s eyes, he’d found Quinn watching him back.

Nothing had happened. Despite the fact that the pull between them was undeniably there, despite the fact that Quinn had been ready for it with hooded eyes and a bite to his lower lip, Eliot had simply finished his drink and buried the urge to find out what Quinn tasted like.

And now Quinn is here in Portland, refusing to go to a hotel and leaving his go bag in Eliot’s living room, utterly disregarding Eliot’s personal space as he walks beside him, close enough for their shoulders to brush casually, like he has no idea how every point of contact sends a spark of heat up Eliot’s spine. As if he’s ever so innocently testing Eliot’s patience, trying to see the exact point when Eliot will snap and slam him against a wall.

Eliot is running out of patience, fast.

The thing is, there’s no reason for Eliot to deny himself this. He finds Quinn attractive, from the way he looks in those expensive suits to the way he fights, fluid and precise and fast. They get along, too; not only in terms of personality and humor, but in fighting as well. Their compatibility in combat as a duo could easily translate into compatibility in the bedroom. And most importantly: he _likes_ Quinn. So it seems like the obvious conclusion to this would be for the two of them to have sex. 

Except, Eliot is pretty damn sure that having sex with Quinn would be a terrible idea, and _he has no idea why_. He can’t pinpoint the exact problem he has with the idea of taking Quinn to bed, but he knows, deep in his bones, that he’d probably be fucking himself over if he went through with it. Which is strange, because Eliot has made far worse choices in terms of bed-partners in the past decade or so. It’s not even like he has a code against taking morally gray hitters to bed, either. On the contrary, he finds it exciting to have somebody dangerous share their body with him, their skin hot against his; he loves the adrenaline rush of having all that disciplined strength succumb to pleasure under his hands.

And Quinn would probably be fucking gorgeous in Eliot’s bed, all bruised lips and long limbs and haphazard curls against the bed sheets. The prettiest picture of sin. He’d make Eliot want to never leave the bedroom.

In retrospect, this might exactly be the problem.

-

Eliot actually doesn’t see Quinn for most of the day. Once they’d gone to the team headquarters and ran the basics of the con by Quinn, Sophie and Parker had kidnapped the hitter for the rest of the afternoon to get him ready for the night. Meanwhile, Eliot had spent the day outside with Nate, deliberately goading the mark into that sweet spot where high stress and pride meet and hatch irrational choices. Satisfied that the mark was now primed for the grand finale, they’d bought Thai takeout for dinner and returned to headquarters ten minutes before Sophie and Parker returned with unnervingly triumphant grins, a bemused Quinn and three shopping bags in tow.

After dinner and a final rundown of the plans for the night, Sophie claps her hands together with a gleeful gleam in her eyes. “Well now, I think it’s about time you boys appreciate the hard work Parker and I put into preparing our bait today.”

“I’m always ready to be appreciated,” Quinn says, standing up from his seat and sharing conspiratorial grin with Sophie. He picks up the shopping bags and meets Eliot’s eyes for a brief second. There’s a flash of a smirk, and then it’s gone as Quinn turns and heads to the back, where the bathroom is.

“Alright, then.” Nate lowers his voice and quirks an eyebrow at Sophie. “You sure he’s good to go?”

Sophie rolls her eyes. “Nate. He’s going to be fine. Stoker is going to be salivating over him for as long as we need.”

“He’s gonna make a great Cinderella,” Parker adds, and that makes everybody pause to stare at her. “What? Sophie’s his fairy godmother and Lucille is the pumpkin carriage. We’ll have him out by midnight. It makes sense.”

“Babe,” Hardison says slowly. “That would mean the mark is Prince Charming, and there’s nothing charming about a guy who lets people overdose on drugs in his own club for profit.”

Parker frowns. “Okay, I guess that’s true.” 

“Back to the point,” Nate says with a sigh. “He’s not going to end up punching the mark out because he got too handsy, right?”

“I did that because I didn’t expect it!” Eliot scowls. “If it’d been in a club where I knew that shit would happen, I would’ve been prepared not to react badly!”

Hardison shakes his head with a little grimace, like he’s trying to shake off the memory. “I mean, I would’ve reacted badly even if I knew it was gonna happen. Seriously, I still need to bleach my brain from hearing what that guy said to you when he did that.” 

They’re busy discussing which of the disgusting incidents they had to endure during their cons was the worst one when Eliot registers the sound of footsteps behind them. He turns halfway in his seat to throw a glance over his shoulder to reassure himself that he doesn’t have his back to a threat, then does a double-take.

Holy shit.

Quinn is wearing a skin-tight blue v-neck teeshirt that shows off his collarbones and his lean torso that he’s been hiding under loose-cut suits. It’s easy to catch the shape of his well-defined muscles under the thin cotton; the curve of his shoulders and the broad stretch of his chest. The smooth, scarred skin of his bare arms reminds Eliot that this is the first time he’s seen Quinn in short sleeves. 

The shirt is probably the lesser of two evils, because Quinn’s pants are made of leather, and they are _obscenely_ tight. Eliot’s pretty sure Quinn isn’t wearing anything underneath them. 

“It’s probably going to be too hot for a jacket when I get inside,” Quinn comments as the rest of the team turns to look at him. He holds up a leather jacket in one hand and then does a slow spin that gives Eliot an excellent view of his ass. The way the muscles in Quinn’s thighs shift is unmissable, and Eliot nearly chokes on thin air at the way Quinn hooks a thumb through a belt loop, inches away from the bulge in his pants.

Hardison whistles, impressed. “I never thought I’d see a man pull off leather pants that well, but I stand corrected. Hot _damn_.”

“Told you he’d make a great Cinderella,” Parker says.

Sophie looks Quinn up and down in blatant appreciation. “I do make an excellent fairy godmother, if I say so myself.”

“Well, I’m not exactly an expert in this area, but I’d say that this should do the trick.” Nate turns his head to look at Eliot. “What do you think?”

Eliot isn’t really capable of thinking right now, so he grits out, “It works.”

“Sounds like a very enthusiastic endorsement.” Quinn’s sarcasm doesn’t quite have the same bite when Eliot is still stuck on how tight those pants are, and how Quinn looks unfairly good in them. Fuck, he wants to unzip those with his _teeth_. 

“Well then,” Nate says, checking his watch. “Time to get to work.”

Parker cheers and hops off her seat, while Hardison grabs his crutches from where they’re leaning against the table. Eliot valiantly tries not to stare at the way Quinn’s muscles shift under his shirt as he pulls the leather jacket on. 

“Let’s go steal ourselves a nightclub,” Nate declares.

-

The ride to the nightclub in downtown is sheer agony. Nate and Parker have gone separately to the office building where the mark has stashed his cash and blackmail materials, so there’s Sophie driving the van with Hardison beside her, and then there’s Eliot in the back with Quinn, the two of them facing each other as they lean against the van walls. Eliot is trying his best to look out the windows and pay no attention to him, but his gaze keeps sliding back to Quinn’s relaxed form, lit up dimly by the streetlights they pass by.

Thankfully, the way the leather pants are basically painted onto Quinn’s skin is harder to see from here, but it’s also simultaneously worse, because that means Eliot’s focus flickers towards Quinn’s curls, which have been pulled out of their customary ponytail and now messily frame his face. He looks just on the right side of disheveled, in a way that invites others to haul him in by his hair and lick into his mouth. 

Eliot is clenching his fists hard enough to make his knuckles ache in order to prevent himself from doing just that.

“Stop it,” Quinn mutters, and Eliot freezes.

He tries to discern whether Quinn means that Eliot needs to stop stealing glances at him or if he means that Eliot needs to stop fantasizing about pinning Quinn to a wall and grinding their hips together until they both come in their pants, but then he hears a soft sigh. Feels the nudge of a foot against his own.

“You think too much.” There’s a fond, exasperated quirk to Quinn’s mouth as he looks at Eliot. “It doesn’t have to be so complicated, y’know.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it. It would be so easy to pull Quinn in for a kiss, to run both hands up those thighs and spread them open, pushing their bodies together and losing themselves to the heat. It’d take just a moment, just the lightest touch to Quinn’s cheek, and then he could have that mouth opening up against his, solid hands dragging him in, all their inhibitions stripped away and left on the floor. It’d be the easiest goddamn thing to do.

Letting Quinn walk away after that, though…

“Not everything’s so easy,” Eliot says. 

Quinn looks at him with a thoughtful gaze that Eliot doesn’t allow himself to squirm under. “I guess not.”

There’s a moment when he thinks the matter is going to be dropped as they both lapse into silence, but then Quinn straightens up, no longer leaning against the van door. Every alarm bell in Eliot’s head starts ringing as Quinn tucks his feet under himself and fluidly shifts his weight from his ass to the soles of his feet, then to his knees in one smooth roll forward. Once he’s kneeling, Quinn leans in, carefully slotting himself between Eliot’s raised knees—Eliot hates himself for automatically widening them, allowing Quinn into his space—and pressing both hands to the van’s carpeted floor on either side of Eliot’s hips. It brings their faces close enough together for Eliot to be able to see the flutter of Quinn’s eyelashes, even in the dim lighting.

“What are you doing?” He murmurs, voice pitched carefully so that Sophie and Hardison don’t notice what’s going on.

“Making things easier,” Quinn whispers back, his breath warm against Eliot’s cheek, sending a frisson of heat through the pit of Eliot’s stomach. He smirks and leans a little closer so that his curls nearly tickle the side of Eliot’s face, his lips treacherously close to Eliot’s ear. “Or harder, depending on what you think.”

The low purr in Quinn’s voice sends a shiver down Eliot’s spine that he hopes like hell is masked by the rumble of the van on the street. He’s acutely aware of the deliberate distance between them, barely an inch keeping them apart. Eliot’s knees framing Quinn’s waist; Quinn’s hands bracketing Eliot’s hips; their faces close enough that he can feel Quinn’s every exhale. From here, he can smell Quinn’s cologne, which has a surprisingly sharp note of citrus mixed in with something like cedarwood, and his self-restraint is close to being entirely shredded apart with the desire to chase that scent and bury his face in the soft skin of the juncture where neck meets shoulder. Fuck, he’s so close to Quinn that he can almost taste him on his tongue right now. 

He takes a careful breath through his teeth so he can avoid any instinctive urges to lean in and bite into the bare skin offered before him. “You’re tryin’ real hard to convince me to make a move when you can make one first.”

It’s a weak retort at best, but it’s still something Eliot can’t help but wonder about. Quinn could easily take the initiative and kiss him. He doesn’t see why Quinn insists on urging Eliot into being the one to initiate anything physical between them. Although, he has to admit, he’s grateful for it. If Quinn kissed him, it would take all of Eliot’s self-control to push him away.

He feels rather than hears Quinn sigh into the curve of his neck, sending a fresh riot of goosebumps down his skin. “I’m not the one who can’t make up his mind.”

“Fuck you,” Eliot says on autopilot. “Maybe I’ve made up my mind and you’re just trying to change it.”

Quinn makes a quiet, unimpressed sound. “For someone who says he made up his mind, you’re takin’ an awful lot of time pushing me away.”

Fuck. Eliot clenches his fists a little tighter. He knows, logically, that all he has to do is shove Quinn back. Just a single push, maybe to his chest, his shoulders; hell, a headbutt would do just fine. Except he doesn’t dare, because if he goes for the chest, he’ll feel the warmth of Quinn’s body heat and solid muscle under the thin cotton of his shirt, and all he’d want to do is slide his palm down all the way to the bulge in Quinn’s pants. If he goes for the shoulders, his hands would meet smooth leather, and his only response to that would be to run his hands over those shoulders and grab the collar of Quinn’s jacket to haul him in. And like hell he can headbutt Quinn when he’s barely restraining himself from turning his head and capturing Quinn’s mouth in a hungry kiss.

Before Eliot can gather the strength to prove his point and push Quinn off, he feels the van pull into the parking lot a block away from the nightclub.

“My answer is going to be yes,” Quinn says, pulling back just enough to look Eliot in the eyes. Without looking away from Eliot’s face, he lifts one hand and trails a fingertip slowly down the center of Eliot’s chest. The touch has Eliot swallowing, a small thrum of desire pooling in his gut. The finger goes lower, to his stomach, and Eliot holds his breath without even realizing it, until the trail ends right at the top of his jeans, thankfully before it reaches where he’s half-hard already. Quinn’s mouth curves into a mischievous smile. “Now figure out what you want to ask me.”

And just like that, he’s moving away right as the van pulls up to a complete stop, Hardison announcing their arrival.

“Showtime,” Quinn says with a grin. He takes the earbud Hardison offers him and nods at Sophie. Then, he shoots a wink at Eliot before he turns, giving Eliot a mouthwatering view of his ass as he opens the van door and steps out. 

Once the van door is shut again, Eliot takes a deep breath and expels it, running a restless hand through his hair. 

“You okay, man?” Hardison asks, maneuvering his way into the back of the van to grab a laptop and get to work. Sophie, who has her own role to play while Quinn is playing honeytrap inside, gives Eliot a glance, smiles her _I know what you don’t want me to know_ smile, then slips out of the van. That doesn’t bode well for him at all.

“I’m fine.” Eliot grabs an earbud and plugs it into his own ear. At least he’ll calm down now that Quinn isn’t in his immediate vicinity. “Just not looking forward to hearing what’ll probably be either sexual harassment or the world’s worst pickup lines.”

Hardison winces. “You know, having a busted ankle is a pain in the ass, but honestly? I’m kinda glad it got me out of this job.”

“Well, sorry about your ankle, buddy, but it got me the easiest job I’ve had in a year,” Quinn says through the comms. “And probably the most fun I’ve had in two months.”

It’s been two months since the job in Toronto. Nothing had been fun about it except for that last evening, when Eliot and Quinn had been sharing beers and laughing in the corner of a bar. Eliot tries not to think about the implications of that. 

“We’re ready,” Nate cuts in. “Quinn, you have fifteen minutes to engage the mark, and then you keep him occupied until we’re done.”

Eliot can hear the smirk in Quinn’s voice when he replies. “I’ll have him in ten.”

-

Eliot was wrong. Having Quinn outside of his immediate vicinity doesn’t calm him down at all. It’s hard to maintain any kind of zen when Quinn is in his ear, all low chuckles and seductive suggestions, flirting relentlessly as he makes his way through the club and into the mark’s interest. It doesn’t help that Quinn keeps receiving propositions that have Eliot’s brain imagining doing those exact things to Quinn’s body.

“Jesus,” Hardison mutters when the fourth person of the night makes a filthy suggestion into Quinn’s ear, right where Hardison and Eliot can hear him. “I know we’re paying you a ton of money already, but I don’t know if that’s enough to cover the therapy costs from hearing that.”

Quinn simply chuckles and responds to the proposition in a flirtatious tone. “Sorry, I prefer it the other way around.” Which makes Eliot choke on the water he’d taken a sip of. Then, in his usual voice, Quinn says, “Hardison, I hate to break it to you, but I’m about to say things that are much, much worse to the mark.”

“Y’know what,” Hardison says, clicking at his comms command center window. The rest of the team have been disconnected from Quinn because the loud music was distracting them—and to protect their eardrums from the filth Quinn had to put up with, according to Hardison—and he hovers his cursor over the button to mute the connection between him and Quinn. “I think I’m good. Eliot can keep an ear out for you, buddy, because I ain’t gonna be able to look you in the eye if I hear that nasty stuff from your mouth. Hardison, out.”

Hardison mutes his connection, and then it’s just Eliot who can hear Quinn in his ear. “I guess this means it’s a private show for you now?”

“Quinn,” Eliot says in a warning tone. He can’t say much more, though, because Quinn might be muted to the team, but the team can still hear Eliot. “What happened to getting the mark in ten?”

“Relax, darlin’.” Quinn’s voice is low and sultry in a way that makes Eliot’s mouth go dry. “I still have two minutes.”

Two minutes, it turns out, is more than enough for Quinn to catch the mark’s eye, because Eliot can hear the polished vowels and sharp consonants in a familiar voice as the mark asks Quinn if he’d like a drink. 

“You look rather warm with a jacket on,” Stoker says. He pauses, clearly appreciating the view. “Though I have to say, it suits you.”

Quinn’s smirk is audible through the comms. “Buy me a drink and I’ll take the jacket off.”

“Just the jacket?” 

“You’ll need to buy me a couple more for the shirt.” Quinn’s voice drops low and sweet. “Get me something better than what I can get at the shitty bar here and I’ll get rid of the pants, too.”

Eliot very carefully refrains from swearing out loud, because he doesn’t need to distract Quinn right now. Also, Hardison doesn’t need to notice that Eliot is on the verge of getting hard in his jeans. 

“I do love a shameless man.” Stoker sounds tempted, but Eliot can tell he isn’t completely sold. “But you should know that I run this establishment, including the shitty bar.”

“Are you saying you don’t have better booze than what you’ve got right here?” Quinn asks, half-playful, half-challenging. Eliot isn’t sure where Quinn is heading with this. Stoker is an arrogant son of a bitch, and riling him up can either work like a charm or blow up in their faces. Especially right now, when the team has been increasing the pressure against him, heaping stressor upon stressor upon stressor. Sophie would know how to push the right buttons, but Quinn isn’t a grifter. If this doesn’t work, nothing will stop Stoker from leaving the club to go check in with his drug supplier, who Nate is taking care of right now.

“I have plenty better,” Stoker says, the edge in his voice tempered by clear amusement. “But I don’t know if you deserve it.”

Quinn must have leaned in close to Stoker, a mockery of how he had leaned all the way into Eliot’s personal space fifteen minutes ago, because his voice is a seductive whisper, barely loud enough to be heard over the music. “Then maybe you should teach me what I have to do to deserve it.”

The invitation there is so blatant that Eliot is glad the rest of the team have Quinn muted, because the way he breathes those words out are obscene. The images that the words conjure are filthy beyond belief, and Eliot has, in the span of three seconds, gained at least six new fantasies regarding accepting Quinn’s offer and teaching him a thing or two.

Clearly, Quinn has Stoker pegged just right, because the interest in Stoker’s voice is unmissable as he says, “Why don’t we take this to my private office?”

That’s Eliot’s cue. “Quinn’s got the mark hooked,” he says, and the rest of the team responds, ready to finish things off. He nods at Hardison and then rolls the van door open. “Goin’ to clear the streets now.”

There are three different drug dealers around the block on the mark’s payroll, and two bouncers at the entry of the club. One dealer inside the club itself, with six bouncers inside. That makes four targets to deal with, and eight obstacles. Eliot starts by heading towards the guy leaning up against the lamppost twenty yards away.

“You’re not from around here,” Stoker says. Eliot can hear him more clearly now, the din of the club music shut away behind a door. “What brings you to Portland?”

“Business consultation.” Eliot snorts at Quinn’s words, right before he knocks the dealer out. “Not very fun stuff. Figured I’d have to find my own fun here.”

The small talk goes on as Stoker pours Quinn a drink. Eliot manages to zip-tie the first dealer and haul him to the club’s loading dock at the back, which is unguarded. Eliot can’t help but scoff at the amateur security. 

He’s dealt with the second dealer, leaving him next to the unconscious first dealer at the loading dock, and is on his way to the third one when he hears Stoker clear his throat. “I seem to recall something about what you’d do if I gave you something you can’t get at the bar.” 

“It _is_ very warm in here,” Quinn says agreeably, and Eliot can hear the rustle of what must be Quinn sliding his jacket off. “Not enough to take my shirt off, though.” His voice is sly. “Unless you give me a refill to warm me up.”

“There are plenty of other ways to warm you up,” Stoker says, but his tone is relaxed. “I can think of quite a few.”

He must have poured Quinn another drink anyway, because Eliot can hear the sound of Quinn swallowing a mouthful of liquor. “Well, there’s plenty of time for you to choose one.”

For a few seconds it’s quiet, but then a sudden burst of music rings out in the silence.

“Do you need to get that?” Quinn asks.

It must be Stoker’s phone. It’s probably his supplier, trying to summon Stoker while Nate works his manipulative magic, and if Stoker were in his right mind, he’d take the call and leave the club. 

But Stoker isn’t in his right mind, courtesy of the team’s efforts, and right in front of him is Quinn, looking like a meal ready to be devoured, the perfect release valve. 

“…No,” Stoker finally says, and the ringtone cuts off. 

“Good,” Quinn purrs. There’s another rustling sound, softer than the previous one, and Eliot belatedly realizes, two steps away from his target, that Quinn must have just stripped his shirt off. The thought makes his brain stutter, and he narrowly avoids a blow to his head by shifting his weight and then clocking the third dealer hard, dropping the other man to the ground. “Wouldn’t want you distracted from the show, yeah?”

“I have to say,” Stoker says, and the predatory note in his voice makes Eliot want to go punch him in his smug face, “the view is rather excellent.” A tinge of genuine curiosity works its way into his voice. “You were in the military?”

“Navy,” Quinn says. It’s a blatant lie; Eliot knows that Quinn never served in the US. “I hope you don’t mind.”

They must be talking about the scars, Eliot realizes. He wonders how many of those Quinn has. What his bare skin looks like, how the ridges of those scars would feel under Eliot’s fingertips. He wonders what kinds of sound Quinn would make if he traced each mark with his tongue.

Dammit, he’s on the job. He needs to focus. With a shake of his head, Eliot starts hauling the dealer to the loading dock.

“I don’t mind at all. Not when you look like this.” Stoker’s appreciation oozes through the comms, and it rubs Eliot the wrong way. He has to suppress a growl as he tosses the dealer beside the other two. “I bet you took orders very well.”

Quinn huffs a laugh. “Depends on who the orders come from.”

“I’ll make sure you take them,” the mark says, and Eliot swallows a dark laugh. _Oh, you wish, buddy_. 

“Have you made up your mind, darlin’?” Quinn asks, and Eliot nearly stops in his tracks en route to the club entrance. “Have you figured out what you want me to do?”

Shit, he’s not asking the mark. He’s asking _Eliot_.

“Quinn,” Eliot hisses, unable to say anything more when the team can hear him. 

As if that single word was an affirmative, Quinn smoothly continues. “Because I have a few suggestions for you.”

Stoker, oblivious, says, “Go on, then.”

“You should get me on my knees.” Quinn’s voice is casual, but there’s a sense of intimacy in his words. A hint of a smile. “I know you’d love to shut me up, put my mouth to better use. You could pull my hair while you’re at it; not too hard, but just enough to make me feel it while I suck you off.”

Just the idea of it makes Eliot’s dick twitch. He takes a deep breath to calm himself, but Quinn doesn’t stop. 

“But I don’t think we should stop at that. You have nice fingers. I bet they’d feel real good, opening me up. Bet you’d be slow about it, too. I hate being teased, but if it’s you, I’d let it slide.” The heat in Quinn’s voice has Eliot’s blood simmering with arousal as he strides towards the club’s entrance. “I know it’s gonna be worth it to have your cock inside me.”

“Fuck,” Eliot swears under his breath. He does his best to look inconspicuous as the bouncer lets him through, and then he’s in the club, surrounded by sweaty, tipsy people. Finding the last dealer is going to take some work.

“I’m not picky about how you want me.” Quinn’s voice is still clear in his ear, sweet as honey and devastating as an earthquake, upending Eliot’s restraint with every word. “If you want me on my back, I can do that. I’ll spread my legs for you if you ask nicely.” His voice dips a little deeper. “Or if you don’t wanna be nice about it, I’m good with that too. I’d love to see you make me spread my legs and work your cock into me. Bet you’d feel so good when you fill me up all the way. Bet it’d be even better if you fucked me properly. Slow, fast, whatever pace you want; I don’t care as long as you do it hard. Make me take it. I don’t beg, but you could try to make me.”

Eliot grits his teeth together, pushing his way through the crowd as Quinn keeps chipping away at his self-control. 

“If you want me to do the work, I’m up for that, too,” Quinn says while Eliot carefully observes every person who isn’t enthusiastically dancing to the music. “Wouldn’t mind if you told me where to touch myself. How slow I should go when I open myself up for you, so I can give you a whole show. How fast I should go when I ride your cock. You could tell me not to come until you’re done, and I’d do that for you, too.”

“What else would you do?” Stoker asks, just as Eliot spots the dealer in a corner, taking folded bills from a skinny kid in a tank top.

Quinn chuckles breathlessly. “I’d do a lot of things. I’d bend over a desk if you wanted me to. You could handcuff me—or tie me up all the way. Fuck me bare and leave me wet and aching for more.”

_Fuck_ , Eliot thinks. He feels like his blood is burning under his skin.

“You’re eager for it, aren’t you.” Stoker sounds ravenous, ready to devour Quinn whole. “Desperate for somebody to tell you what to do.”

“Darlin’,” Quinn drawls, and Eliot instinctively stops, a few steps away from his target, his whole body focusing on what Quinn says next. “I wouldn’t want it from anybody else.”

Jesus Christ, Eliot is so deeply fucked. He’s hard and aching and _so fucking done for_.

“We’re done,” Nate reports through the comms. Parker chimes in a cheerful affirmative. “Sophie?”

There’s a low laugh on Sophie’s end. “Ready as ever.”

“Police are going to be on their way right about,” Hardison pauses, “now.”

“Eliot?” Nate asks.

“Done,” Eliot says, and punches the dealer hard enough to knock the guy a foot sideways. He doesn’t get up, which is good enough. One of the bouncers sees it happen and starts approaching. “Quinn, playtime’s over.”

The first bouncer who reaches Eliot moves to grab his arm, and Eliot twists away, using the momentum to punch the bouncer straight in the solar plexus, then clocks the side of his jaw, sending the man sprawling. The crowd splits apart around them as the other bouncers shout and move in towards Eliot. Through his earbud, he can hear Quinn and Stoker shifting their focus from each other to the commotion outside of the office as Eliot ducks another incoming punch and sends an elbow into his attacker’s side. 

“You might want to check on that,” Quinn says, breezy and bemused, and Eliot can’t help but grin at the way Quinn’s seductive voice has been replaced by his usual one. 

There’s the sound of police sirens outside of the club, and Stoker rushes down the stairs, looking bewildered until he spots Eliot at the center of the commotion. His face distorts into pure fury. “You!”

Eliot grins, wide enough to show his teeth, then punches another bouncer down with a solid blow. “Hey, nice place you got here.”

“You can’t just come in here and cause trouble in my business,” Stoker snarls. He looks at the remaining bouncers. “What the hell do you think I pay you for? Get him!”

There’s three of them, none of them formally trained except for the head bouncer, who has a history in the military. It takes Eliot less than two minutes to have them all groaning on the floor, the whole crowd of club patrons gawking, a bunch of them even recording the whole deal with their phones. Eliot inwardly thanks the club’s terrible lighting. His face isn’t going to be visible on grainy cell phone footage in here.

“This is _assault_. I am going to call the police,” Stoker yells.

“No need, we’re already here,” says a police detective, flanked by two officers, striding in with an unimpressed look on her face. Eliot uses the moment where all the attention shifts to her to move back, grabbing the unconscious drug dealer and planting a phone on his chest.

Stoker looks torn between delight and distress at the sight of police on his property, uninvited. “Officers, that man is trying to disrupt my business—”

“Why, do you mean the business of selling drugs on your property?” The detective asks in the suddenly quiet room, the music gone and the crowd murmuring nervously around them. In the back of the club, Eliot sees Sophie smirking, soon joined by Nate and Parker. Hardison cackles in his ear as the mark’s face goes pale. 

“I don’t know anything about that,” Stoker stutters.

The detective sighs. “Right, and I’m sure you know nothing about the three drug dealers behind your club, saying they’re on your payroll.”

That’s the moment the phone on the fourth dealer’s chest starts ringing. Everybody falls silent as the shrill ringtone clicks into accepting a phone call, then a loud, recorded conversation comes through the speakerphone. A very incriminating conversation that Stoker had with his drug supplier just yesterday, where they both yell at each other a lot and name a lot of each other’s criminal acts. 

“Age of the geek, baby,” Hardison crows. 

“Huh,” the detective says. “I guess we can arrest Andre Santiago, too.”

Stoker’s face pales. “No, that’s not right. I’m being framed. This is a set up. That’s not me!”

At that moment, a binder drops at the mark’s feet from the second floor. When everybody looks up, nobody’s there, but Stoker clearly knows that there was only one person left in his office to rummage around. Eliot can’t help but feel a surge of pride as Stoker gapes, speechless.

“Oh, that must be the ledger I’ve heard so much about,” the detective says, and that’s the moment Eliot edges away, slipping into the crowd and joining the rest of the team in the back. They take a moment to enjoy watching Stoker rage and sputter as he’s handcuffed, then they turn and exit the place. 

When they reach the van, Hardison and Quinn are waiting for them. Quinn is, for some reason, still shirtless despite the fact that his shirt and jacket are right there beside him.

“It’s too hot,” he says when the others stare at him.

They squeeze into the van, Nate and Parker joining Eliot and Quinn in the back this time. They collectively agree that it’s too late in the night for celebratory drinks, so they opt for a team lunch instead so that they can go home and sleep. Sophie drives to the front of Eliot’s apartment first, where Quinn and Eliot both wave the team off, but not before Sophie gives them a salacious wink.

“What did you tell Sophie?” Eliot hisses at Quinn once the van is out of sight.

“Nothing.” Quinn pauses. “She’s just good at paying attention.”

Everybody on the team is good at paying attention; it’s just that each of them pay attention to different things. Eliot pays attention to physical threats; Sophie pays attention to everybody’s emotions and interactions. It’s inevitable that she probably saw this coming from a mile away.

With a long-suffering sigh, Eliot unlocks the door to his apartment. He takes a moment to give Quinn a sidelong glance, taking in the bare skin of his torso, the jut of his hip bones peeking out from the waist of his jeans. He recalls the serious undertone to Quinn’s words: _I wouldn’t want it from anybody else_. 

Eliot isn’t an idiot. He knows that those aren’t words to be spoken lightly. Especially between hitters, where a single weakness could be the death of you. Even if it’s just in the bedroom, that’s the kind of trust you bestow only to people you’re completely sure about. 

And the idea that Quinn is sure about him—fuck, how is Eliot meant to resist that?

He opens the door and takes two steps inside. Then he spins around and shoves Quinn back against the door, slamming it shut behind them as he pushes his body against Quinn’s and kisses him.

Quinn doesn’t even hesitate to respond; he opens his mouth the very moment their lips meet, and Eliot doesn’t hesitate to lick into it, his hands firmly holding Quinn by the shoulders as he finally gives in to the hunger that’s been building up in him for months now. He kisses Quinn like he wants to eat him alive, and Quinn responds just as enthusiastically, dropping the shirt and jacket to place both hands on Eliot’s waist, pulling him in so that Eliot’s hips are pressed against his, pinning him to the door. Eliot grinds their hips together, slow and deliberate, and a hot spike of pleasure has him groaning into Quinn’s mouth. 

When they break apart, Quinn’s mouth hitches up into a faint smile. “Made up your mind now?”

Eliot doesn’t dignify that with a response, and instead slides his right hand up Quinn’s shoulders towards his neck, enjoying the shiver that the movement elicits, until his fingers are resting on Quinn’s carotid artery. Under his fingertips, he can feel the steady rhythm of Quinn’s heart rate, the closest approximation of a measure to see through Quinn in case he lies.

“What you said, back there,” Eliot says, because he needs this to be unambiguous for both of them, “you’d do all of that?”

Quinn makes a soft noise, something that sounds like discomfort, and Eliot can feel the slightest quickening of his pulse. Clearly, it’s harder for him to say the words like this: in the quiet privacy of Eliot’s home, Eliot’s fingers against his pulse point and all bravado stripped away, leaving the bare bones of his desires. 

“If it’s you,” Quinn finally admits. That’s all he says, but it’s enough.

Eliot takes a deep breath. When he speaks, his voice is surprisingly steady. “Let me make one thing clear: if you wanna do this another way, we can do that. You don’t gotta give up control just because you think it’s the only option you’ve got.”

That gets Quinn to roll his eyes, all edges of apprehensiveness gone. “Well, if you’ve got any other offers on the table, I’d love to hear them some other time. But right now?” He turns his head just enough to nip at the tip of Eliot’s thumb, a playful smirk curling on his lips. “I want you to be the one calling the shots.”

Permission granted, then.

“I can live with that,” Eliot murmurs, and he slides his right hand to the back of Quinn’s head to pull him in for another kiss. This one’s slower, the previous urgency replaced by the simmer of anticipation, allowing Eliot to revel in the faint taste of bourbon on Quinn’s tongue and the softness of his hair, breathing in the scent of citrus and cedarwood and letting it settle deep in his lungs. He kisses Quinn like that until the hands on Eliot’s hips grow restless, trying to drag Eliot in to roll their hips together, which Eliot puts a stop to by simply grabbing hold of Quinn’s wrist with his left hand, gripping hard enough to make Quinn’s breath stutter.

When Eliot pulls back with a lazy bite to Quinn’s lower lip, Quinn says, “You don’t need to go easy on me.”

“Trust me, I ain’t lettin’ you off easy,” Eliot says with a grin. He steps back, away from Quinn’s reluctant hands and affronted expression. “Before we get started, you need anything? Drink? Bathroom?”

“I’m good,” Quinn says. To his credit, there’s only a tinge of impatience in his tone.

Eliot nods and tilts his head in a gesture for Quinn to follow him, and they walk into the bedroom without speaking. When they’re both past the doorway, Eliot indicates the lamp on the bedside table. “Turn that on, pull the blanket down, then sit on the mattress. We’re gonna talk first.”

Quinn huffs, but he goes and does as he was told. Meanwhile, Eliot takes off his jacket and tosses it into a corner along with his wallet, then closes the bedroom door. Once Quinn is sitting on the edge of the bed, Eliot walks to stand in front of him. He keeps a deliberate distance between them to make sure they don’t get sidetracked mid-discussion, though he does take a moment to admire Quinn’s bare skin in the warm glow of the lamplight, the view of leather stretched tight across strong thighs and a very obvious erection. 

“If this is going to be a talk about feelings,” Quinn snarks, “I can tell you I’m feeling ready to get fucked.”

He’s mouthy, Eliot notes. Some people would have a problem with that. 

Eliot likes it. “Just basics.” He doesn’t plan on doing anything complicated tonight. They can have a more detailed negotiation if they ever decide to do an encore—and fuck, Eliot can’t afford to think about anything beyond here and now—but for tonight, he only needs to know the essentials. “Anything off-limits?”

“Blindfolds,” Quinn says immediately, which makes Eliot wonder if there’s a story there, but he dismisses the curiosity and simply crosses anything that would obstruct Quinn’s sight off his mental list. “Dirty talk is fine, but I don’t do humiliation.” He pauses. “And no choking. Pretty sure I’d fight back.”

“Anything else?” Eliot asks, and Quinn shakes his head. With the most basic boundaries established, Eliot takes a step forward and cups Quinn’s cheek, tilting his head upwards so that he can meet Eliot’s eyes. “What do you like?”

Quinn grins. “I’m pretty flexible.”

“I’m sure you are.” Eliot taps his thumb against Quinn’s cheekbone twice. In a firm voice, he changes the question into an order. “Quinn, tell me what you like.”

The shift in his tone makes Quinn blink, his grin softening into a faint smile as he replies, “Manhandling. You can be as rough as you want. Pain is good as long as you don’t break skin. Gets too messy otherwise.” He lapses into thoughtful silence, and Eliot patiently waits until Quinn opens his mouth again. “I don’t like being coddled, or being treated like I’m fragile.” Then, hesitantly, “But I don’t mind compliments.”

The way Quinn looks a little defensive about it makes something deep in Eliot’s chest go terribly soft. “Okay. Anything else you wanna tell me?”

“I don’t beg.” Quinn’s voice is firm, but there’s a glint of a challenge in his eyes that tells Eliot that he’s welcome to try to change that. Hell, Quinn already said just as much, back in the mark’s office. 

“We’ll see about that,” Eliot says, amicable. He pulls his hand back, away from Quinn’s cheek. “Alright, then. You know the traffic light system?”

“Green for go, yellow for wait, red for stop,” Quinn recites lazily. “Works for me.”

“Good,” Eliot says, and then slaps Quinn across the face.

Quinn doesn’t quite gasp, but he sucks in a sharp inhale and swears shakily under his breath. When he looks back at Eliot, his pupils are blown wide, noticeable even in the low light.

“Color?” Eliot asks in a mild tone.

There’s no hesitation in Quinn’s answer. “Green.”

Eliot slaps the other cheek this time. He can hear the way Quinn’s breathing goes rapid and shallow, can see the twitch of Quinn’s dick through his pants. Eliot rarely uses violence in the bedroom—usually it’s in the form of light spanking for fun, not something as visceral as this—but the rush of adrenaline he gets from seeing the look in Quinn’s eyes makes his whole body go hot with the want to wreck him.

“Get on your knees,” Eliot says, and Quinn slides off the bed in a single fluid motion, going down to his knees so that his face is mere inches away from the half-hard erection in Eliot’s jeans. “Show me how good that mouth of yours is.”

Quinn’s reaction is immediate; his hands go to Eliot’s fly, unzipping it with deft hands. Eliot feels a tinge of pride at the fact that Quinn’s breathing is still a little shaky.

“Not that I don’t want to blow your mind,” Quinn says as he tugs Eliot’s jeans down to mid-thigh, “but we probably need—”

Eliot dangles a condom wrapper in front of Quinn’s face. 

Quinn blinks, clearly taken aback, and Eliot enjoys the moment while Quinn snatches the condom from Eliot’s hand. “Okay, somebody expected to get laid today.”

“Usually have one in my wallet, just in case,” Eliot explains. He’d snuck it into the back pocket of his jeans right before he’d tossed his wallet into the corner. “I know you offered to let me fuck you bare, and trust me, I’d love to take you up on that, but that’s not happening tonight.”

“Maybe after we get tested,” Quinn says, which Eliot firmly ignores. Thinking about anything that’s going to happen after tonight is only going to distract him. 

“Still waiting for you to blow my mind.” Eliot keeps his tone placid, but he pinches Quinn’s ear in a silent warning. 

Quinn takes the hint and leans in, where he mouths wetly over the head of Eliot’s cock over the fabric of Eliot’s boxers, causing Eliot to exhale harshly. Once Eliot’s been teased to full hardness, Quinn hooks his fingers into the waistband of Eliot’s underwear, glancing up through his lashes to check for any objections before he pulls it down to join Eliot’s jeans. Quinn, who must’ve torn the wrapper open while Eliot wasn’t paying attention, proceeds to decimate half of Eliot’s sanity by rolling the condom onto Eliot’s cock _with his mouth_. 

The other half of Eliot’s sanity goes down in flames when Quinn doesn’t even stop halfway and simply keeps going until he’s swallowed Eliot whole, his nose pushing into the dark curls at the base of Eliot’s dick.

“Fuck,” Eliot breathes. Quinn pulls off, just enough to keep the head of Eliot’s cock in his mouth, running his tongue on the underside of it before wetly gliding back towards the sensitive tip, which makes Eliot repeat himself more emphatically. “ _Fuck_.”

Quinn has an unfairly talented mouth, which is doubly effective when coupled with his complete lack of a gag reflex. He makes such a pretty picture too, his lips stretched around Eliot’s dick, taking him deep into the wet heat of his mouth. It gets simultaneously better and worse when Eliot threads his fingers through the curls at the back of Quinn’s head and tightens his grip, because Quinn moans around Eliot’s cock, a pleasant vibration that sends a shock of pleasure through Eliot’s nervous system, and the way his lashes flutter as his eyes slide shut in bliss makes Eliot want to drag him in by the hair and fuck his mouth rough and hard. He’s pretty sure Quinn would enjoy it, too.

But right now, he’s more interested in fucking a different part of Quinn.

It takes every ounce of his self-control to pull Quinn off of his cock with the hand fisted in Quinn’s hair. Quinn makes a disappointed sound, but that changes into an appreciative groan when Eliot hauls him up to his feet and kisses him, chasing the faint taste of latex in Quinn’s mouth. Quinn sighs into the kiss and runs both hands up the planes of Eliot’s back, from waist to shoulder blades, and then he rakes his nails down, just hard enough for Eliot to feel the faint burn through the fabric of his teeshirt. 

In return, Eliot slides the hand that isn’t gripping curly hair up Quinn’s side, his palm flat against warm skin, slow and easy as he makes his way past scars and ribs, enjoying the way Quinn trembles just the slightest bit. When he reaches Quinn’s chest, he rubs his thumb over a nipple and is rewarded with a full-body twitch. Eliot repeats the gesture, taking advantage of Quinn’s distraction to take charge of the kiss, tilting his head to fit their mouths better. 

Kissing Quinn is almost like a fight; they’re both trying to wrestle each other into submission, and it’s pretty obvious from this alone that Quinn is going to challenge Eliot at every opportunity. As much as they’ve agreed that Eliot’s the one calling the shots tonight, Quinn doesn’t cede control without a struggle. It’s like the only way he can give up control is to have it taken from him by force.

So Eliot pinches Quinn’s nipple, twisting it a little, swallowing Quinn’s cut-off moan and slowing the kiss down, forcing Quinn to follow his pace. Every time Quinn tries to take the lead, Eliot tightens the grip he has on Quinn’s hair, giving his head a tiny shake, just enough to signal that Quinn isn’t in control. Eventually, Quinn gives in, and for a minute they just kiss, slow and wet, until it becomes downright filthy, stoking the fire in the pit of Eliot’s stomach until he feels like his blood is burning. 

When they break the kiss, Eliot pulls Quinn’s head back, not too hard, but just firmly enough for Quinn to follow the movement, baring his throat to Eliot. 

“You good with me marking you up?” Eliot asks, just to be sure.

He can’t see it, but he can tell Quinn’s rolling his eyes. “Yes, Eliot, I am very okay with you marking me wherever you want. But I’m pretty sure your team’s gonna notice if you leave a mark on my neck.”

“Not your job to think about tomorrow or anybody else,” Eliot says, grazing his teeth across the skin above Quinn’s collarbone. “I’m the only one you should focus on right now.”

“Then maybe you should be better at keeping my attention,” Quinn retorts, ever defiant even when he’s at Eliot’s mercy. Daring Eliot to put him in his place.

He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the juncture where neck meets shoulder, enjoying how Quinn’s hands clench at the back of Eliot’s shirt. “Guess we’re done with warmup, then.”

“Oh, good,” Quinn says, sounding slightly unsteady, “I was worried this was the best you got.”

Eliot rolls his eyes. Quinn isn’t going to make this easy at all.

That’s fine. Eliot likes it that way.

“Don’t worry.” Eliot presses another kiss, chaste and brief, to Quinn’s skin. “We’re just getting started.”

“Darlin’, nobody likes a man who’s all talk and no—”

Eliot bites down hard. 

Quinn breaks off his words with a choked sound, his back arching into the pain. Eliot takes a moment to soothe the bite with his tongue, then he lets go of Quinn and pushes him a step backwards so that the backs of Quinn’s knees are hitting the edge of the bed. He doesn’t even pause to let Quinn get his bearings; he slaps him hard enough that Quinn sways a little on his feet.

“Look at me,” Eliot orders, his tone calm but firm. 

When Quinn does, dazed and breathless, he backhands him across the other cheek. Quinn stays steady this time, probably because he was expecting the blow, but Eliot wants to keep him off-balance.

He shoves Quinn’s chest, sending him sprawling backwards onto the bed. Eliot doesn’t waste any time; he strips his shirt off as he kicks off his jeans and underwear along with his shoes, peels off his socks with rapid efficiency, then climbs onto the bed over Quinn. He grabs Quinn’s hands and pins both wrists with one hand over Quinn’s head. Quinn could easily break out of the hold if he wanted, but before he can test that, Eliot reaches down and squeezes Quinn’s dick over his pants. 

“Fuck,” Quinn swears.

Eliot smiles down at him, feeling a little smug. “Not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet?” Quinn’s voice is indignant, and there’s a trace of that deep southern accent that only comes out when Quinn’s feeling particularly frustrated.

Eliot rubs over the bulge in Quinn’s pants, slow and steady, admiring the rise and fall of Quinn’s chest as he tries to regulate his breathing, the flutter of Quinn’s eyelashes as he glares up at Eliot. “You don’t deserve it yet.”

It takes a moment for Quinn to catch on to the fact that Eliot’s referring to Quinn’s statement from back in the club. “Seriously?”

“Very.” Eliot squeezes Quinn’s dick and enjoys the sight of Quinn instinctively spreading his knees. “If you want me to fuck you,” he gropes it again just to see Quinn squirm under him, “you’re gonna have to come in these pants first.”

“Do you know how fucking hard it is to get come out of leather?” There’s a dark flush on Quinn’s cheeks, and Eliot can’t quite tell if it’s because of the slapping or because of arousal. Either way, Eliot likes the look of it.

“Stop bitching,” Eliot says, and this one isn’t an order. It’s too full of amusement and fond exasperation to be one. “I’ll take care of it. You just focus on me.”

Quinn doesn’t stop bitching, but he doesn’t attempt to break Eliot’s hold either, which Eliot is weirdly proud of. It’s good to see that Quinn knows when to listen to Eliot and when not to. 

“Come on.” Eliot kicks up the pace a notch, taking note of how Quinn’s hips shift restlessly, how his voice breaks off into breathless moans stuttering out of him, how the flush in his face spreads down his neck and all the way to his chest. “I wanna see you lose it. Show me what you’ve got.” He can’t help the way his voice goes low and warm. “Let me see it, sweetheart. Come for me.”

He watches Quinn’s back arch off the bed with a low moan ripped from his flushed throat as he throws his head back, and Eliot drinks in the sight of it as he keeps rubbing Quinn’s dick til he’s soft and twitching in oversensitivity.

“You did so good,” Eliot says, letting go of Quinn and leaning all the way down to press a kiss to the corner of Quinn’s mouth. “So good for me.”

He can hear the stutter in Quinn’s breath at his words, can see the way Quinn bites his lip for just a second, his brows furrowing a little in uncertainty even as a flush creeps up his neck. Eliot observes the mixed signals for a second, gauging how much Quinn enjoys the praise versus how resistant he is to simply accepting it. 

“Did you just call me sweetheart?” Quinn asks when he gets his breath back.

Eliot raises an eyebrow. “That a problem?”

Quinn hums thoughtfully. He brings his arms down from where they’d been crossed over his head, loosely draping them around Eliot’s neck and pulling him in with a faint smirk. “No, not really.”

They kiss for a lazy minute, then Eliot has to swallow a groan and pull away when his cock rubs against Quinn’s hip. He’s so damn hard that it aches. 

“Do I deserve your cock now?” Quinn asks, smirking wider.

It’s a testament to how truly fucked Eliot is that he finds Quinn’s bratty brand of submissiveness charming. It’s annoying as hell, yes, but it works for Eliot anyway. 

“Keep running your mouth and I’ll use that instead,” Eliot says in a casual tone. The hitch in Quinn’s breath tells Eliot that the idea of him _using_ Quinn is an unexpected turn-on. He allows one corner of his mouth to hitch up in a crooked smile and pats Quinn’s clothed hip. “Let’s get you out of these, first.”

He pushes himself upright and off of Quinn, looking down the length of long legs and belatedly remembering that Quinn is wearing leather boots that come up above his ankles. Well, he might as well take care of those. 

Eliot gets off the bed, ready to crouch down and unlace Quinn’s boots, when he notices that Quinn isn’t moving from where he’s propped himself up on his elbows. Quinn’s eyes are busy traveling over the lines of Eliot’s body with naked appreciation, and Eliot can’t help the amusement bubbling up in his chest. “Like the view?”

“I’d like it even more in bed with me,” Quinn says, his gaze still following the length of Eliot’s calves. 

“Pants first,” Eliot reminds him, but he allows Quinn to stare some more as Eliot goes down on a knee to reach Quinn’s right foot, unlacing it methodically. He pulls the boot off, then the sock under it, and is reaching for the other foot when he notices Quinn is staring at him. Not in a blatant appreciation kind of way, but in an unreadable way that has Eliot straightening up a little, sitting back on one heel. “Something wrong?”

Quinn blinks, looking a little caught out. “Nothing.”

Eliot narrows his eyes. “Color.”

Quinn hesitates. 

Shit. “Tell me a color,” Eliot says, carefully keeping his hands on his own knees, where Quinn can see them, “or we stop here.”

“Yellow,” Quinn blurts. Then he quickly adds, “It’s nothing, seriously. Just felt weird for a second.”

Eliot mentally reviews where he touched and what he just did, then runs that against what he knows so far about Quinn’s preferences and limits. He’s not entirely sure what might have been the problem, but there’s really only one action that could have provoked this. “You don’t want me to take your shoes off?”

“It’s not that.” Quinn chews his lip, gaze darting away to the side, looking like he’d rather be doing anything than saying what’s wrong. 

“Quinn.” Eliot keeps his tone as neutral as he can. “Tell me what I should stop doing.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, and Eliot’s ready to call this whole thing off when Quinn finally says, in a single rush, “It feels too much like you’re spoiling me.”

Eliot blinks, processes that, then blinks again. “You think me taking your shoes off because I’m too impatient to wait for your slow ass to do the work is _spoiling_ you?” He pauses, thinking that over. “Is this related to the coddling thing?”

“I said that it felt weird for a _second_ ,” Quinn says, sounding a little annoyed now. “Just—you don’t have to be gentle or anything.”

There hadn’t been anything gentle about the clinical efficiency that Eliot had used to take Quinn’s boot off, but he has a sneaking suspicion that this is more about Quinn’s feelings than Eliot’s actions. He’s tempted to call Quinn out on it, because there’s no room for hiding or lying in here, where they’re both operating on mutual trust, but part of this deal is trusting your partner on their word. For now, Eliot has to take Quinn’s words at face value.

“If you feel weird again and you don’t tell me right away,” Eliot warns, gripping Quinn’s bare ankle and squeezing hard to make his message very clear, “this thing’s over. No second chances, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Quinn says, something akin to relief in his eyes.

Eliot shakes his head and gets to work on the other boot, glancing up midway to confirm that yes, there’s an amused look on Quinn’s face. “Color.”

Quinn rolls his eyes. “Green.”

“Then get your damn pants off,” Eliot says, dropping the boot on the floor.

“Sure thing.” Quinn unzips his pants with a grimace. “Christ’s sake.” He hooks his thumbs into the waistband, pulling the pants halfway down his ass. It becomes pretty obvious that the pants are clinging to his skin, made worse by the mess of sweat and come, no doubt. Quinn frowns, then shoots Eliot a mischievous look. “Wanna help me take these off?

“And spoil you?” Eliot asks, just to fuck with him, and enjoys the scowl he gets in return. Satisfied, he places one knee on the bed between Quinn’s legs, leaning in close and pressing a quick kiss to the grin that’s replaced the scowl, and grabs Quinn’s pants by the belt loops and pulls.

It takes some effort to peel the pants off all the way, even with Quinn lifting his hips and then his legs to make it easier for Eliot to pull them off.

Once Eliot’s tugged the pants off and left them in a pile on the floor, he says, “I think we should burn those.”

“You don’t think they looked good on me?” Quinn smirks, spreading his knees a little for Eliot to get a good view. Eliot feels his dick twitch at the sight. “Parker said I looked good in them.”

“Never mention Parker’s name while we’re having sex again,” Eliot says as he opens the drawer of the bedside table and grabs a bottle of lube.

Quinn chuckles while Eliot crawls onto the bed. “Does this mean we’re actually having sex now?”

“We’ve been having sex since fifteen minutes ago, you brat,” Eliot says as he drops the lube next to the pillow at the head of the bed. He grabs Quinn by the wrist and pulls him over, rearranging themselves so that Eliot’s leaning against the headboard with the pillow between his back and the wood while Quinn is on his knees, straddling Eliot’s thighs.

“Let me rephrase: does this mean you’ll actually fuck me now?” Quinn asks. He has one hand settled on Eliot’s shoulder and the other one stroking Eliot’s hair, running his fingers through the strands almost absentmindedly while Eliot pours lube into the palm of his left hand. It feels nice and unexpectedly tender, which Eliot studiously overlooks. The only thing that matters right now is taking Quinn apart.

Eliot sets the bottle down and looks up at Quinn. “Hands on my shoulders.”

Quinn blinks. “What, right now?”

“Right now,” Eliot confirms. 

“I don’t know, I was kinda enjoying the discovery that your hair is a lot softer than it looks—”

Eliot smacks the cheek of Quinn’s ass with his right hand. It’s not a hard hit; he knows that Quinn can take a lot more than this. But he has a good enough grasp of his strength that he knows it’s enough to sting. That it’s enough to shut Quinn up.

“Hands on my shoulders,” Eliot repeats, and feels a thrum of satisfaction when Quinn complies without talking back. “And don’t move them from there until I say you can.”

“What happens if I move them?” For once, Quinn doesn’t sound mischievous or playful. He sounds genuinely curious. Maybe even a little intrigued.

Eliot starts coating the fingers of his right hand, one by one, with the lube. “Then you get punished.”

“What’s the punishment?” Quinn asks.

“Something that’s gonna make you wish you hadn’t moved your hands,” Eliot replies, and then traces the cleft of Quinn’s ass with his middle finger until he reaches Quinn’s hole, rubbing the lube-slick pad of his finger over the entrance.

Quinn sucks in a sharp breath, his hands briefly clenching Eliot’s shoulders as his whole body tenses up. The tension bleeds out fast, though, as Quinn exhales slowly, relaxing into the touch. 

Eliot circles the entrance with his fingertip once, twice. Doesn’t do much but rub his finger over it, tracing the rim but not going much further. He keeps doing that until Quinn grits his teeth and says, “Eliot, quit teasing me.”

“You said you’d let it slide,” Eliot says, sneaking the very tip of his finger inwards, just enough to make Quinn feel that itch for more. 

Quinn swears in Italian, which is interesting. Eliot’s heard Quinn swear in four languages so far while they’ve known each other, but Italian is new. It’s tempting to keep teasing Quinn until Eliot wrings out every language the other man knows out of him.

“You might want to reconsider your stance on begging,” Eliot comments, still teasing the rim of Quinn’s hole.

This time, Quinn says something impressively nasty in Russian, which Eliot files away for future use in case the team ever goes up against someone who speaks the language. 

“Your sweet talk could use some work,” Eliot says, taking a moment to trace Quinn’s perineum, causing Quinn to shudder. “C’mon, you can do better than that.”

Quinn cranes his head downwards, the angle not quite allowing him to reach Eliot’s ear, but enough for his honey-sweet voice to send goosebumps down Eliot’s skin. “Darlin’, I want you to wreck me until the only thing I remember is your name.”

The words send a jolt of lust down Eliot’s spine straight to his dick. He has to struggle to take a deep breath and keep his composure. “Not bad.” 

Then he pushes one finger inside Quinn without warning, all the way to the knuckle, listening to the way Quinn exhales in a single burst, his breath punched out of him. He curls his left hand around Quinn’s cock, spreading the leftover lube over its length as he pumps it a couple times, rubbing over the tip with the pad of his thumb. Quinn’s grip on his shoulders tightens, a warm, steady pressure that contrasts against Eliot’s punishing rhythm as he fingers Quinn. 

He adds another finger soon enough, thrusting into Quinn fast and hard while his other hand moves on Quinn’s cock nice and slow. Quinn is fully hard now, beads of precome starting to ooze from the tip, and Eliot smears the wetness over the head of Quinn’s dick with a twist of his wrist. Barely five seconds later, he adds a third finger. 

Quinn’s gripping Eliot’s shoulders tight enough to be on the edge of painful now, but Eliot doesn’t mind. He’s pleased that Quinn is keeping his hands exactly where Eliot told him to. It’s also amusing, he notes in the corner of his mind, that Quinn is swearing under his breath in at least three different languages without actually directing any words towards Eliot. 

Well, at least until Eliot takes his hand off Quinn’s dick, holding Quinn’s hip instead to keep him steady.

“Cocktease,” Quinn growls at him, but he’s starting to tremble as Eliot keeps thrusting his fingers into him. He tries to squirm his hips, but Eliot holds him in place, not allowing Quinn to fuck back onto his fingers or to pull away from them. “Son of a—”

Quinn’s words are cut off with a low moan catching in his throat as his whole body jerks, his fingernails digging into the back of Eliot’s shoulders as Eliot’s fingers hit a specific spot. Eliot thrusts his fingers in at the same angle again, which earns him another choked moan and a full-body twitch, and he memorizes exactly where Quinn’s prostate is before he pulls his fingers out entirely. 

“What the fuck,” Quinn hisses, but then Eliot’s pulling his legs in and tucking them under himself as he takes Quinn by the hips, pushing him back onto the mattress and rolling them so that Quinn’s laying on his back, Eliot hovering over him. 

Quinn’s hands are still on his shoulders. Eliot’s proud of him for that.

“You’re doing good,” Eliot says, letting the warmth suffuse his voice, and watches Quinn’s mouth press into a flat line even while his cheeks flush a little pink. 

He leans in to press a brief kiss to Quinn’s mouth, then says, “You can move your hands. No touching yourself or me.”

“The fuck else am I supposed to do with them?” Quinn removes his hands from Eliot’s shoulders anyway. They hover uncertainly before they settle by his own hips, against the bedsheets.

“Just keep them off yourself.” Eliot moves away, sitting back onto his heels and settling himself between Quinn’s spread legs. He grabs the lube and pours a generous amount onto his fingers, then unceremoniously shoves three of them into Quinn’s ass again, earning a choked expletive. 

He keeps things fast as he thrusts his fingers in hard, giving Quinn a minute to adjust to the unforgiving pace. Then he twists his fingers so that they hit Quinn’s prostate, enjoying the way Quinn’s whole body jolts at the added stimulation, twitching at every thrust, his limbs trembling uncontrollably under Eliot’s hand as he grabs Quinn’s knee and pushes it to the side, opening him up wider, giving Eliot a better view of his fingers thrusting into Quinn.

“If you keep that up,” Quinn says, his words breaking apart at every shallow breath he takes, “I’m gonna come before you even fuck me.”

“That ain’t a problem.” Eliot shoves his fingers in again, aiming for Quinn’s prostate with every thrust. If Quinn can still speak in full sentences, Eliot needs to do a better job.

Quinn swears, his voice cracking. “Eliot, I— _fuck_ , I’m gonna come.”

“Go ahead,” Eliot says.

“Not—shit.” Quinn’s voice stutters on a moan. “Not enough.”

Eliot pushes Quinn’s knee back a little, deepening the thrusts just a bit more. “C’mon, sweetheart. Tell me what you need.”

“Need, ah, Christ.” The way Quinn’s voice goes breathless, his words punctuated with short whimpers, tells Eliot just how close he is. The restless way his hips shift and the dark flush making its way down his chest, white-knuckled hands gripping the bed sheets, the way he’s shaking so hard that it feels like there’s an earthquake trapped under his skin, all foundations breaking apart—Quinn is so close to being completely undone, and Eliot wants him coming apart right here, right now. “Need you to—fuck—touch me.”

“Ask,” Eliot says.

Quinn doesn’t. Instead he says, breath hitching and voice breaking, “I need you.”

It’s not quite exactly begging, but it’s good enough. Eliot didn’t expect Quinn to break that easily anyway. 

“You have me,” Eliot says, like it’s a promise he intends to keep. 

Then he slaps Quinn hard.

Quinn comes all over his stomach with a filthy moan, arching his back and clenching hard around Eliot’s fingers, and Eliot keeps fingering him through it, having just enough mercy to avoid Quinn’s prostate. He keeps going until the shaking subsides, until the only movements from Quinn are the rapid rise-fall of his chest and the twitch of his hips every time Eliot drives his fingers into him.

“You look good like this,” Eliot murmurs, thrusting his fingers in one more time before he pulls them out. He pushes Quinn’s knees wide apart, taking a moment to admire the view: messy curls spilled onto the bedsheets, dazed eyes with pupils blown so wide the black almost swallows the light brown, darkening marks on sweat-slick skin, drops of come still dripping slowly from a softened cock, and the lube-slick rim of Quinn’s hole.

He slides one hand up the back of Quinn’s thigh until he reaches the joint of his bent knee, pushing it down to open Quinn up, and Quinn’s voice rasps, “Eliot, you bastard.”

“Until the only thing you remember is my name,” Eliot reminds him. He’s been hard and aching for so long now that it actually hurts a little when he slicks himself up with the lube. “This is what you wanted, sweetheart.”

He pushes into Quinn in one hard thrust, and Quinn chokes out a helpless, “ _Fuck_.”

Eliot inwardly echoes the sentiment. Quinn’s body is pliant from orgasm, no resistance whatsoever, just a snug heat that feels so good around his cock. He pulls out and thrusts back in, reveling in the pleasure that burns through his blood, drinking in the way Quinn’s breath stutters and the way his voice cracks open on a moan, feeling an electric crackle go up his spine when Quinn clenches around him. He breathes through the initial shockwave of pleasure, then starts fucking Quinn in earnest.

He sets a fast and unrelenting pace, bending Quinn’s legs back to get the best angle to fuck into him, watching the way Quinn shudders every time Eliot manages to graze his prostate. It’s easy to tell that Quinn’s overstimulated, because his breath keeps hitching at every drag of Eliot’s cock inside him, his limbs twitching at every thrust, his voice cracking in desperation as he manages to push out disconnected words. “Can’t, Eliot, you fucker—I _can’t_.”

“You’re doing so good, baby.” Eliot lets the words tumble out of his mouth, certain that Quinn’s not in any state to protest or even resist the praise. “Fuck, you feel amazing, look so good with my cock in you.”

“I can’t,” Quinn repeats desperately, his whole body trembling as he looks at Eliot with wild eyes.

In any other situation, Eliot would back off, but this is _Quinn_. Quinn, who could fight Eliot off even if he was two orgasms deep. Quinn, who’s smart enough to know that he can make Eliot stop with a single word. Quinn, who’s still keeping his hands where Eliot ordered him to.

So instead, he says, “You don’t get a choice.”

And Quinn, voice shattering apart on a single syllable, says, “Green.”

Eliot is going to fucking _ruin_ him. 

He pulls out of Quinn, who makes a breathless sound of something that sounds like both confusion and relief, then taps at Quinn’s hands. “Let go.” 

Quinn unclenches his fists, releasing the wrinkled bed sheets, and Eliot then grabs his shoulder, turning him around and manhandling him roughly onto his elbows and knees. He can hear a faint, “Oh shit,” from Quinn as he realizes what’s about to happen, but Eliot doesn’t pause to check in with him. Just nudges Quinn’s knees apart, then lines himself up and thrusts all the way in.

Fucking Quinn from this angle is just as addictive as having Quinn on his back. He can’t see Quinn’s facial expressions from here, which is admittedly a loss, but the view here is spectacular in its own fashion: the way Quinn’s back muscles flex and shift under his scarred skin, the lower dip of his spine, and the curves of his ass as it takes Eliot in all the way. 

Also, it’s a lot easier to hit Quinn’s prostate like this.

“Eliot,” Quinn gasps as Eliot aims for the exact spot that makes Quinn jerk like he’s been electrocuted. Eliot repeats the motion, hard and fast. “Fuck, _Eliot_.”

“Look at you,” Eliot says, a little breathless himself. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

He hauls Quinn’s hips up a little higher for a better angle, gripping Quinn hard enough to leave bruises as he fucks into him. He manages to nail Quinn’s prostate on every thrust, which has Quinn spilling a litany of Eliot’s name from his lips, punctuated by the occasional curse. In fact, Eliot’s pretty sure that Quinn’s entire vocabulary has been reduced to _fuck_ , _shit_ , and _Eliot_. 

“That’s right, it’s just me. I’m the only one you gotta focus on, sweetheart.” Eliot digs his fingers deeper into Quinn’s hips. “I’m all you need to remember right now.”

Quinn’s breath punches out of him like a sob with every thrust. “ _Eliot—_ ”

The way Quinn says Eliot’s name, over and over, like it’s all he’s hanging onto, has the tension building up inside Eliot growing tauter and tauter until it snaps, the white-hot pleasure drowning everything out as his hips stutter to a stop, his cock buried as deep as it can go as he comes with a drawn-out groan. 

“Shit,” Eliot says when he gets his breath back, aftershocks still wearing off of him, and he has to pry his fingers off of Quinn’s hips, which are bruising already. It satisfies a weird, primal part of Eliot’s brain. He smooths a hand down Quinn’s back, and gets a shiver in return. “Quinn?”

Quinn doesn’t answer, but he’s trembling faintly and his breathing is harsh, so Eliot slides his hand around Quinn’s waist and goes down to confirm that yes, Quinn’s hard. 

It must be fucking agony, to be oversensitive and hard again so soon. No wonder Quinn can’t even respond to his own name. 

Eliot pulls out of Quinn gently, before he goes fully soft, tying off the condom and dropping it before he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the dip in Quinn’s lower back. He hears the slight hitch in Quinn’s breathing, and works his way up the curve of Quinn’s spine, littering kisses as he goes up, not stopping until he’s pressing his mouth to the base of Quinn’s nape, his chest melded to Quinn’s back. He can’t go farther than that, given their height difference, but he deems it good enough. 

“You did good,” Eliot whispers, pressing a brief kiss to the back of Quinn’s shoulder as he snakes an arm around Quinn’s waist to wrap a hand around his cock. Quinn makes a pained noise, shuddering hard, dropping his forehead down onto his clenched fists. “You’re fucking perfect, you know that? Never seen anything as gorgeous as you.”

Quinn mutters a soft curse, and Eliot lifts his own head enough to see a pink flush stealing over the back of Quinn’s neck. Eliot smiles and lowers his head to press another kiss to Quinn’s sweat-damp skin.

“So good for me,” Eliot continues, stroking Quinn slow and steady. “Gave me everything I asked for and more.”

“Eliot,” Quinn says in an unsteady voice. There’s a hint of disbelief there that has Eliot squeezing the base of Quinn’s dick, making him listen to Eliot’s words.

“I mean it.” He does. He means every single word. “You’re better than anything I could’ve dreamed of.”

Quinn exhales shakily. Doesn’t try to contradict Eliot or shy away from the praise. Eliot feels a flutter of satisfaction at that, and he resumes stroking Quinn with a firm hand. In no time at all, Quinn is shaking, breathing fast as he edges towards orgasm.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Eliot says. He kisses the back of Quinn’s shoulder and listens to Quinn say his name like a desperate prayer. “I’ve got you.”

He bites down, and Quinn swears fiercely as he comes apart one more time. 

Once he’s done stroking Quinn through the aftershocks, Eliot keeps his arm curled around Quinn and shifts his weight so that they both roll sideways onto the bed, Eliot spooning Quinn. He basks in the contact for a moment, then pushes himself upright to a sitting position, turning Quinn onto his back and checking him over. 

“You need anything?” Eliot asks, and Quinn blinks up at him with a dazed look.

“Water,” Quinn rasps after a few seconds. Then a corner of his mouth quirks up. “Your body heat. Or blankets. Or both.”

Eliot huffs in amusement, then leans down to give Quinn a quick kiss. “Be right back.”

He grabs two bottles of water from the kitchen and then a damp towel from the bathroom, then comes back to find Quinn still laying where Eliot left him. He looks a little more alert now, but he’s still relaxed and boneless enough to let Eliot wipe him down and manhandle him into a sitting position so that he can drink some water while Eliot wipes himself. Once Quinn’s been sufficiently hydrated, Eliot chugs the rest of the bottle and tosses it into the trash can. He leaves the other bottle on the bedside drawer, just in case Quinn needs it, and then throws the towel into the hamper. 

Satisfied, Eliot climbs onto the bed and pushes Quinn’s shoulder to make him lay down with his head on the pillow. Then he grabs the blanket from the foot of the bed and pulls it up to cover them both as he lays down beside Quinn so that they’re facing each other. 

“How you feelin’?” Eliot asks.

“Like I owe your team a huge favor for calling me in for this job,” Quinn says with a lazy grin.

Eliot raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one who did all the work, and you wanna thank _them_?”

“I’m going to thank you _very_ creatively in the morning, so relax, darlin’.” There’s a mischievous glint in Quinn’s eyes that bodes pretty well for Eliot’s morning. He hopes it involves his dick and Quinn’s mouth. “But—yeah, thank you.” Quinn’s grin softens into a small smile. “For not letting me down.”

Eliot knows he’s not talking about the sex. “Thanks for trusting me.”

“Goes both ways,” Quinn says quietly.

There’s a kind of tension between them; not the sexual kind, but something like an emotion brimming and threatening to overflow, and Eliot isn’t ready to face that, so he ends the moment by clearing his throat. “So, you said something about body heat?”

“I know I’m the one who said that, but you know you can call it cuddling, right?” The amusement in Quinn’s voice makes Eliot scowl. “I’m calling big spoon.”

“You better not steal the blankets,” Eliot says, rolling over and turning the lamp off before he settles back down, allowing Quinn to scoot in and curl around him, snaking one arm over Eliot’s waist, palm settling against his sternum. 

Quinn huffs, nuzzling into Eliot’s nape. Eliot wonders if Quinn always gets this physically affectionate after sex, or if it’s a lingering aftereffect of submission. “You’re a damn furnace, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

They settle down after that, the exhaustion settling in, and Quinn is soon asleep, his breathing steady in the quiet of the bedroom, breath puffing warmly against Eliot’s hair. 

Only after he’s sure Quinn is fast asleep, Eliot places his hand over the one pressed against his sternum. 

He falls asleep like that. 

-

When Eliot wakes up, he sits up and thinks, _shit_.

Now, in the bright morning light, he’s realized his error. He’s had sex with Quinn— _amazing_ sex, his brain adds—and now he’s going to have to live with the fact that he’s had a taste of something he can’t get again. Because Quinn probably isn’t interested in anything more than a one night show, and Eliot has never been an encore kind of guy anyway, but fuck. _Fuck_. He likes Quinn, more than he should, more than he can care to admit, and now he’s going to have to watch Quinn walk away, and—

The arm draped over his waist tightens around him. 

“You think too much,” Quinn mumbles.

Eliot looks down and sees the mess of curls against the pillow, the bite mark on a firm shoulder, the flutter of eyelashes as Quinn blinks up at him, annoyed and sleepy and soft around the edges. Like he belongs in Eliot’s bed. 

For a long moment, he stares at Quinn, who is growing a little more alert but no less annoyed. He remembers how Quinn looked like last night, all defenses finally stripped away as he gave in to Eliot. He remembers _if it’s you_.

“Yesterday, you said you’d say yes.” When Quinn’s brow furrows in confusion, he clarifies, “You said your answer would be yes, and I had to figure out what to ask you.”

“Oh, that.” Quinn looks at him curiously. “I thought the sex thing would be it. You have something in mind?”

Getting the words out is hard, but hell, it can’t be harder than watching Quinn leave his bed and never return to it. “Go on a date with me. A real one, not just for sex.”

Quinn blinks. “Okay.”

“…Wait.” He wasn’t expecting it to be _that_ easy. “Seriously?”

“To be honest, I was ready to settle for friends with benefits,” Quinn says, “but I changed my mind.”

There’s a lot to unpack in that statement— _settle_ for friends with benefits?—but Eliot focuses on the last part. “What changed your mind?”

“Uh.” Quinn averts his eyes. The way he chews his lip has Eliot recalling, with vivid clarity, the unreadable look Quinn gave him last night, when Eliot was on one knee at Quinn’s feet.

“When I was taking off your shoes,” Eliot realizes, and Quinn flushes so noticeably that the rest of the revelation crashes into Eliot like a truck. “Is _that_ why you were weird? Because you figured out that you have, what, feelings for me?”

“Shut up,” Quinn groans, hiding his face in Eliot’s hip. “It’s not like that.”

Eliot runs his hand through unruly curls, now safe in the knowledge that he’s allowed to have this. “I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what it looks like.”

Quinn grumbles, then says, face still hidden, “I already had it figured out. It just—was more than I was bargaining for.”

“Huh.” Maybe Quinn likes him more than he can care to admit, too. “Hey, look at me.”

He tugs Quinn’s curls lightly, persuading him to look up. He can read the defensiveness in Quinn’s eyes, like he thinks he’s the only one who is in too deep, and Eliot feels a pang in his chest. 

“What you just said,” Eliot says in a steady voice, his fingertips trailing down Quinn’s cheek to his jaw, “goes both ways.”

Quinn inhales sharply, searching his face for even the slightest trace of a lie, and Eliot lets him look until he’s satisfied. Until he believes Eliot completely. 

“Okay,” Quinn finally says. Then he rolls his eyes. Back to his usual self, even if he’s a little pink in the cheeks. “Can we stop talking about feelings and go back to sleep now?”

Eliot chuckles. “Yeah, okay.” He taps Quinn’s shoulder. “Move. I gotta lay down.”

Quinn scoots away just enough for Eliot to settle in, then pulls Eliot into the curve of his body so that Eliot’s back is against his chest. It feels nice. 

Eliot knows it’s not something he can get used to. Not while Quinn is still in the game, still not quite permanent in Eliot’s life.

This thing between them isn’t going to be easy. 

But—

“What I said last night, it ain’t just bedroom talk,” Eliot says quietly. “I meant it.” He covers the hand pressed against his sternum with his own. “Even if you don’t need me, I still mean it.”

Quinn breathes behind him, quiet and soft, not asking what Eliot’s referring to. Just as Eliot’s wondering if Quinn remembers, if he understands what Eliot’s getting at, Quinn says in a low voice, “I have you.”

“You have me,” Eliot confirms, and feels Quinn smile against the skin of his nape.

-

This thing between them isn’t going to be easy.

Eliot’s okay with that. Nothing good ever came easy, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

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